Phantom Shadows
by murrysunshine
Summary: Moriarty promised to burn the heart out of Sherlock. And he intends to keep that promise. One part sci-fi, one part adventure, one part violence, two parts romance, all parts drama.
1. Chapter 1

"But you see Sir, it's not quite safe yet. If I had more time perhaps—"

"No. By the time safety is assured, my need for this machine will be obsolete.

You do wish to be paid for your services Professor?"

"Yes, of course, Sir. Will we be, uhh, settling payment soon?"

"Don't worry about the trivial matter of money. My associate will be by in a matter of minutes to take care of those—loose ends."

The line went dead, leaving the words "Blocked Call" flashing on the man's cellphone. His client had a unique way of filling him with an intense dread. He was dwelling upon the man's parting words. Loose ends. It was a rather singular and ominous way of alluding to money. He had just barely begun to organize his test circuit boards when there was a knock on the lab door.

The Grecian man smoothed his thinning black hair, pushed himself away from the counter, and made his way to the door. There was a loud click as he undid the latch and opened the door.

A tall, well-built man stood in the hallway. One hand was nestled in the pocket of his jeans; the other held a heavy-looking briefcase. A security card hung from the lanyard around his neck. Upon seeing the other man his wary expression vanished and an amicable smile replaced it.

He offered up his hand and the professor took it.

"Professor Iasion. Sebastian Moran. I'm here for your latest project."

"Of course," Iasion replied, "I'm sorry to trouble you, but it's necessary that you give me the project number before I let you in. I must take precautions to protect such an expensive project as this."

"I would expect no less," Moran replied, a slight annoyance underlying his words. He shifted in the hall impatiently and listed off the fifteen-digit code.

The professor gave one quick nod when he had finished, took a step back, and beckoned for the other man to follow him. The made their way into the depths of the laboratory, passing circuit boards and split wires, until the finally stopped in front of a large cylindrical container.

"As your employer ordered, I preset the coordinates and have done all I can in the allotted time to assure the traveler's safety. Of course I can not guarantee your safety…"

Moran gave a terse, understanding nod.

"I suppose you want your money now."

"Well yes," Professor Iasion replied before pausing to add, "If it's not too much trouble—"

"Oh no. It's actually quite convenient. You see I made sure to bring all that I needed to fix up the loose ends."

Again, the odd choice of words. Loose ends. The professor could feel beads of sweat trickling down his neck, his skin felt impossibly hot. He just wanted to sell this blasted project. His client gave him more anxiety than the whole thing was worth. Thankfully, he would be done with this shady client and his odd employee.

Iasion turned his back to Moran and double-checked the machine's wiring. Moran set down his briefcase with a gentle, muted thud. The case clicked open. Then, two more clicks followed. The professor didn't need to be told that the other man had just taken a handgun from the case. He turned around slowly.

"You—you can't shoot me! You'll damage the machine"

Moran considered this. But the spider was whispering to him through an earpiece.

"Quite right," he muttered back to his master. "Lucky for me, I am an expert marksman. Don't worry professor. I won't damage your precious project. I'll just cut off the loose ends."

The shot echoed through the lab as the bullet bit deep into the professor's flesh, killing him instantaneously. Moran moved quickly and dragged the dead man from the machine's interior. The bullet was buried deep in the professor's torso. There was no mess aside for the bit of blood that had gotten on the machine's floor. More blood flowed from the deceased man, pooling on the slick white laboratory floor. His murderer stepped over him, ran a hand down the side of the beautifully complex machine, climbed into the container, and yanked the door shut behind him.

"Now Sebastian," the voice in Moran's ear purred with transparent satisfaction, "it's about time that you paid your comrade Watson a visit."


	2. Chapter 2

The crumbling house in which the machine materialized had been abandoned nearly a year ago. Glass from the broken windows lay scattered across the dirt floor and the concrete walls were eroding with disuse and age. The time machine's hatch swung open, clanging loudly against the machine's metal exterior. Moran stumbled out of the cylindrical chamber carrying the briefcase in one hand and a fat laundry bag in the other.

Traveller's sickness overtook him and both items fell to the ground as Moran involuntarily fell to his knees. He struggled to organize his thoughts and control his muscles, but found himself unable to comprehend the full function and capacity of his limbs. His brain and stomach took on a tsunami of nausea. The sharpshooter's facial features twisted into a grimace of disgust, disgust at his own bodily weakness.

Drawing a tarnished flask from his back pocket, he unscrewed the cap and downed some liquid strength. It burned in his throat pleasantly, and he could feel his vitality returning slowing like an incoming tide. Finally he stood up. His muscles strained unsteadily as he shed his t-shirt and jeans and changed into the uniform he had taken from the laundry bag. He rolled up his worn clothes, stuffed them in the bag, and tossed them into the machine. All his power had returned when he stooped and took a handful of the gritty, dry soil. With the deftness of an artist, he gently smeared the dirt on his face and clothes. Then he turned to the briefcase and greeted the two guns that lay within it.

The smaller one was a military grade handgun. It was a standard L9A1 Browning, crafted for functionality. Moran curled his fingers around the well-worn grip gingerly before he slipped it into the pocket of his uniform.

The second gun was a SA80 Rifle. Moran flashed a sincere grin at the deathly weapon as he took three magazines from the briefcase, loaded one into the rifle and stuffed the others in his pocket. _How many have I killed with this lovely,_ he mused. He had lost count long ago. It was exhilarating to tuck the machine again his body again. He had missed his old lover.

Finally, he stretched out. Moran relaxed his shoulders and raised his jaw with self-satisfaction. The ease with which he shed three years of civilian, or rather criminal, life was astonishing. Clad in thin, flexible brown-camouflage osprey armour with a military rifle partially tucked beneath his right arm and the insignia of a Colonel upon his chest, he looked like the soldier he once was and would now be.

xxxx

When the patrol truck appeared in the distance, Moran stretched out prone upon the ground and set up his rifle, staring down the scope to survey the vehicle's occupants. As promised, the three were of low ranks and so young and inexperienced that they probably were afraid to take a piss without a buddy on lookout nearby. He nestled the rifle into his shoulder, drew in a deep breath, took aim, and fired, twice. The air cracked with the sound and a second later the driver slumped in his seat and one of the front tires burst. The truck tumbled and Moran took off, running a wide, looping circle around the runaway truck. Then, he approached the scene from the direction opposite where he had fired. He was lightly panting when he reached the scene.

The soldier in the passenger seat had managed to stop the truck and pull the driver out and onto the ground. The man in the back had slammed his head and was still in the truck, hunched over and semi-conscious. The passenger-seat soldier noticed Moran first, and, after glancing at the crown and two stars that were embroidered onto his uniform, greeted him with a respectful solute. The private began to explain the situation hurriedly and Moran pretended to care. Finally the older man cut him off and, with another glance at the bloodstained driver, impatiently barked at the young man to get a doctor.

With an obedient, "Yes sir," the private scampered off towards the camp.

Moran watched him run for bit, grinning at how perfectly the pieces were falling into place. The struggling gasps of the dying driver brought him back to the moment and he turned, knelt down, and stared into the man's eyes as he straggled away the gasps. Then he dragged the dead man to the truck. The trunk was easy to open, and Moran gracefully dumped the body into it.

The semi-conscious man's eyes were closed when Moran sat down next to him and loaded his handgun, but the older man pried them open and smirked as fear spread to younger's features like dye diffusing into water. The air cracked. The bullet tore through the man's heart.

Moran's job was only half-complete, however, so he hopped out of the truck and crouched down, waiting for the private to return with his prize.


	3. Chapter 3

The drug had seeped into his bloodstream. The fear in his eyes diminished beneath the warm haze of morphine. The army doctor hovered over him with a metal tray table to his left and a nurse at his right. The doctor worked quickly, extracting the embedded shrapnel with a steady hand and thin tongs. Five shards, ranging in length from a quarter inch to a ghastly five inches, were dropped into the metal bowl the nurse held. The last blood shard had just been extracted when the captain walked in followed by a young, jumpy private.

The doctor set aside his tongs when he saw them.

"Clean the wounds," he instructed.

The nurse took his place as he rolled off his plastic gloves, deposited them in a beat up trashcan, and made his way towards the two men.

"Doctor Watson," Captain Gregory greeted him as he approached. His voice was low and calm, but contained a subtle hint of urgency.

"Private Smith has just returned from patrol. A sniper shot them from the hills. Sergeant Davis sustained a head wound, Private Walker's status is unknown."

Private Smith shifted from foot to foot, before looking up and stretching forward hesitantly.

"Is that all private?" Watson asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Uh. Um.. another man showed up."

Gregory's eyes flared with this added information. The younger soldier frowned deeply as he continued, "After the accident.. He..he was a Colonel. And on our side too."

"And his unit number?" The doctor queried as gently as he could, the annoyance emanating from the captain was infecting his mood too.

"I…I wasn't focused. I didn't get it."

"Private, go get Sergeant Evans."

The soldier nodded obediently, turned, and fled from the hospital tent. The captain withdrew soon after and the doctor set about collecting his kit. Then he went to his locker and pulled his arms though his Mk. 4 Osprey body armour. He tightened the fasteners and fitted the collar protector to the vest, forgoing the arm protector; they would only make him clumsy. Sweat was already soaking through his brown polo as he pocketed his Browning, folded back the tent flap, and stepped into the searing sun.

The patrol truck circled the area three times before it finally approached the broken down vehicle. Smith climbed out first, and Evans followed him, swinging his legs out in front of him as he leapt over the side of the truck. Their rifles clicked simultaneously, as they pressed their backs together and studied the terrain. Gregory stopped beside Smith, tapped his shoulder, and jerked his head in the doctor's direction. Then he took Smith's place as the private joined Watson beside the truck.

Private Walker was slumped in the backseat. One glance told Watson he was dead. Private Davis seemed to be missing. Watson and Smith circled the vehicle once before Watson motioned to the trunk. The doctor drew his handgun and Smith aimed his rifle. With a swift motion, Watson flung the trunk open. Smith yelped and for a brief second Evans was startled. He glanced over his shoulder at the dark black bruises encircling the late Davis' neck.

The sharpshooter seized the mistake. The first bullet tore Evans' hamstring and the man collapsed, the second ripped through Smith's larynx.

The doctor reacted immediately; two hands steadied Smith's head as he pulled the private to the ground and scrambled backwards beneath the truck dragging Smith with him. The soldier's mouth open and closed like a mannequin as Watson tilted his head back for a quick assessment. A Laryngeal fracture falling under the categories of penetrating and high velocity. Diagnosis: lethal. He wanted to ease the man's death, but there was nothing he could do. His kit was lying in the trunk of the patrol car.

Gregory had dragged Evans underneath the other patrol car. Watson could hear the wounded man's breathing; it was already coming in rough gulps. Smith was a lost cause and he wouldn't let another man die if he could help it. He refused to cower from this unseen threat while Evans lost more and more blood.

In a snap decision, he pressed his hand into Smith's paling one.

"Promise me that you'll wear the collar protector next time."

The corners of his lips rose into a smile, but his eyes confessed his despair. He didn't wait for Smith to reply, the young soldier would never utter another word, instead he slid out from under the truck and scanned the area before rushing towards the other patrol car and joining the two soldiers in the area below it.

Gregory nodded a greeting and turned away, peering out into the area for any sign of movement. He tucked his chin to his breast and spoke softly into his radio, reporting their location and the status of their comrades. The doctor set about fixing up his patient. All that mattered was that the bleeding stopped; the bullet could be removed later. He ripped a strip of fabric from his brown polo and tied it firmly around Evans' knee. Evans was hysterical. He began muttering about boots, tightly laced boots, brown boots, army boots, a pair of boots, it all seemed obsessive and incoherent. Finally, the hand whipped forward to clutch the doctor's arm.

"Boots. Coming."

Watson's golden eyebrows dipped in confusion and Gregory glanced over at him. Then the captain saw the hand and the boots of the colonel. The hand closed on the doctor's ankle and the man was yanked backwards. Another hand darted into view, gasping Watson's shoulder and pulling him up. There was a metallic click.

"Come on out Captain, or we'll find out what colour your loyal doctor bleeds."

Gregory knew Evans would die without Watson's aid. This man might kill them all. He had to risk it. With a helpless huff, Gregory crawled into the sunlight.

"There's a good man. Now give me the radio."

Captain Gregory hesitated. So the colonel took action. Without releasing the doctor from his hold, the colonel stomped down on Gregory's foot, immobilizing it before he slammed the soldier in the chest with the butt of his gun. Watson thought he heard the crack as Gregory tumbled down, his left leg bending unnaturally. Most likely a displaced fracture of the tibia. The fracture was closed. Diagnosis: painful, but not deadly.

With a well-aimed blow from his heel, the colonel destroyed the radio. Watson dropped down in this moment of distraction, but the other man was too quick. The Colonel's gun followed him down. The world went bright as the gun made contact with his temple. His head began to fall forward, his surroundings lost their light and dimmed until they ceased to exist.


End file.
